I am staring at an empty page, thinking where my next writing will take me. I have no plan. When I wrote before, it was just there. No effort. I don’t know why I haven’t written anything for a long time. Perhaps I used writing as an outlet for my feelings, and then didn’t need it anymore.

I do miss writing.

So here I am. The page is not a clean slate anymore. I am a writer. Not entirely sure I own up to this statement or fully believe in it yet. My best friend said that I should write a book after she read some of my writings. Right at that moment, I felt strong hesitation. Am I? Am I a writer?

It was recently that I had this clear thought for the first time: I am a writer. Until then I just wrote. Was that the time when I stopped writing? Was it really the lack of need to write or fear of not living up to the writer title?

I used to tell myself that I am writing what is in my heart, not to impress anyone. But I know that wasn’t entirely true. I want to make a difference, have impact, as I am sure we all do in our own ways.

So, this may be a new chapter in my writing experience. And I may be just beginning it right here.